


it's all about the game and how you play it

by Duckyboos



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Wrestling, Athlete Castiel (Supernatural), Athlete Dean Winchester, Athletes, Bickering, Jealousy, Kissing, M/M, Wrestler Castiel, Wrestler Dean Winchester, smack talk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-24
Updated: 2020-11-24
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:07:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27701137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Duckyboos/pseuds/Duckyboos
Summary: There are a lot of rules in professional wrestling. Most of them are safety-related like: don’t turn up to work high or drunk (lookin’ at you, Jeff Hardy) or general contract shit like if the boss wants you to put over, then you damn well do it (yeah, Brett Hart).But the absolute number one rule is that you don’t break kayfabe. It’s a career-killer. Even if you’ve got a torn pectoral, a broken ankle, fuck, even if you’ve been set on goddamn fire and have third-degree burns, you do not break kayfabe.When faced with a blue-eyed distraction, pro-wrestler Dean Winchester damn near breaks kayfabe.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 57
Kudos: 209





	it's all about the game and how you play it

**Author's Note:**

> Over the last few weeks leading up to the SPN finale, I’ve retreated to one of my happy places, which is late 90s Attitude-Era pro-wrestling (I am the biggest nerd this side of the Atlantic for Big Red Machine era Kane; I’m talking figures, signed merch, dvds, etc.) I needed to write something dumb like this just as a palate cleanser. 
> 
> Also, I totally stole Dean’s wrestling name and entrance song from actual professional wrestler, Shawn Michaels, but listen to the [damn song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gnLRtQRqwCA) (you are 100% forgiven for thinking that the dude is a stripper btw, because seriously) and tell me that the old school Dean wouldn’t want this as his entrance music???
> 
> A few useful terms for those that didn’t spend the 90s and early 00s watching this nonsense:  
> ‘one fall’ - the first time one of the competitors is pinned (usually for a three-count), submits, or is counted out, the match is over  
> ‘heel’ - bad guy  
> ‘babyface’ - good guy  
> ‘putting over’ - act of a wrestler losing to another wrestler  
> ‘kayfabe’ - character/storyline; to break kayfabe is like an actor breaking character on camera  
> ‘chokeslam’ - a wrestler grasps an opponent's throat, lifts them up, and slams them to the mat  
> ‘moonsault’ - a 270-degree backflip from the top rope/turnbuckle onto an opponent  
> ‘suplex’ - the opponent is picked up off of the mat from behind by their waist and thrown backward
> 
> And finally, a friend of mine, [contemplativepancakes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/contemplativepancakes/pseuds/contemplativepancakes), also recently posted a wrestling fic for their DCBB. It’s fun AF. So if you're in the mood for more grappling goodness, give it a read!

There are a lot of rules in professional wrestling. Most of them are safety-related like: don’t turn up to work high or drunk (lookin’ at you, Jeff Hardy) or general contract shit like if the boss wants you to put over, then you damn well do it ( _yeah,_ Brett Hart).

But the absolute number one rule is that you don’t break kayfabe. It’s a career-killer. Even if you’ve got a torn pectoral, a broken ankle, fuck, even if you’ve been set on goddamn fire and have third-degree burns, you do _not_ break kayfabe.

No matter how crazy or dumb your storyline-slash-characterization is this week.

“The following contest is scheduled for one fall…”

The house lights go down and Dean smacks himself in the chest once, jogging in place like he’s an actual athlete or something, rather than some lucky asshole who gets paid the big bucks to play fight with other half-naked sweaty guys.

“...Weighing in at two-hundred and eighteen pounds, he is the reigning Intercontinental champion, it’s the Heartbreak Kid, Dean Winchesterrrrrrr…”

No matter how many times he does this, it never gets old. Or less nerve-wracking.

The opening swoon of the song kicks in, reverbing right through the huge arena. The lights begin strobing at the same time as Dean’s pretty decent (if he does say so himself) voice starts singing on the track. 

_‘I think I’m cute. I know I’m sexy. I’ve got the looks that drive the girls wild. I've got the moves, that really move 'em. I send chills up and down their spines. I'm just a sexy boy…’_

Dean swaggers out from backstage – well, as much as a fully grown, thirty-something man can swagger wearing nothing but spandex tights, anyways. 

_‘...I make 'em hot. I make 'em shiver. Their knees get weak whenever I'm around…’_

Over the music, the commentators seated at their table ringside are likely hyping Dean up to the audience at home, saying shit like, “Here he is, JR, our resident ladies man, Dean Winchester,” with the other responding, “That’s right Cole, he’s WWE’s reigning Intercontinental champion and professional wrestling’s most eligible bachelor.” Or at least that’s their usual spiel Dean hears when he watches his Tivo’d matches back for missed opportunities and dropped moves.

What the audience doesn't know is that the eligible bachelor part ain’t exactly true. Dean hasn’t been single for, oh, around thirteen years now. In fact, he was in a relationship before he was in the WWE, but a pretty boy in a long-term relationship doesn’t put asses on seats and smiles on faces, so his character is a perpetually single lothario; lunging from one terrible, soap-opera storyline about spurned lovers and one-night-stands and pregnancy scares, to another. 

He lives for it. The telenovela bullshit. 

Right now, he’s got a feud going with another wrestler over Dean supposedly harassing his girl. It’s dumb as fuck, but at least he hasn’t got a mop for a manager or been forced to eat his pet chihuahua, so he counts himself lucky. 

Dean slowly and deliberately climbs up the steel steps at the outer left corner of the ring, slipping between the middle of the ropes into the squared circle. The waiting referee hands him a microphone and the music fades out at the same time the house lights come up properly.

Dean turns in place, taking in the crowd; the sights, the smells, the excited hush that falls over sixty-five thousand people. Although he’s not the main event at this pay-per-view, there’s already a nervous energy kind of tonight; a crackle of anticipation because the main event is _big_. It’s probably what at least half of the crowd are here to see. Still, Dean’s got a job to do and he’s damn good at it. Even though he’s fighting his own nerves, ‘cause this match might be a run-of-the-mill feud for the audience, but for Dean, it’s so much more. 

He hitches the Intercontinental title belt up on his bare shoulder, mostly just for show because fans love the reminder. He licks his dry lips and drops his voice an octave. “So, last week, Duke challenged me to a fight over the honor of his girl–” there’s a small ripple of acknowledgment throughout the crowd, “–in my opinion, that ship sailed a long time ago–” which is followed by a scattering of boos, but mostly it’s catcalls and laughter, “–but, never let it be said that the Heartbreak Kid backs down from a challenge. Certainly where a beautiful woman is concerned. And _especially_ at SummerSlam!”

The arena explodes with deafening cheers and Dean pauses, grinning. He waits for them to simmer down and points dramatically at the backstage area. “So come on out here, Duke. Let’s get your ass-kicking over with so that I can get back to banging your sister–” more laughing, “–and these lovely people can get to their John Cena versus The Rock showdown. Battle of the Hollywood bigshots, huh?”

The crowd erupts into cheers again and Dean hands off the mic to the referee right as his opponent’s music kicks in. 

Dean tosses his belt off the edge of the canvas, watching as it folds to the floor outside the ring. He glances up and right in the center of this section of the crowd is a busty redhead with a fluorescent sign that reads, ‘YOU MAKE MY KNEES WEAK, DEAN WINCHESTER’, so Dean draws a heart in the air and blows her a kiss.

It’s cheesy as hell, but she swoons like he’s just asked her to marry him. 

(Though ironically, that’s not even close to the reaction he received when he did actually get down on one knee).

Back in the center of the ring, Dean rolls his shoulders, his neck, even though he’s done all his warmups before he came out.

It’s all about the show though, so he goes through the motions whilst Duke and his kayfabe girlfriend, Toni, make their way down the entrance ramp to the ring. 

For the first time in his eleven-year career with the WWE, Dean has a serious case of butterflies. His title’s not on the line and because all the matches are pre-determined, he already knows that he’s gonna lose due to outside interference, but this match is one he’s been waiting on for a long time. 

Duke folds between the ropes, aiming that oily smirk at Dean as he straightens up, every inch the R-Rated Superstar. Toni waits at the side of the ring, watching with the other thousands of people as Duke squares right up to Dean, getting into his personal space, chest puffed all the way up. 

The audience jeers and as the heel to Dean’s babyface, it’s up to Duke to throw the first sneaky punch. Which he does, and they’re off. 

They pull off some decent moves, not missing any beats. A couple of chokeslams here, a moonsault there. At one point they end up over the crowd barrier in the laps of the expensive seats. A blonde woman takes the opportunity to grope Dean's ass, and as much as he hates it, he shoots her a cheeky wink over his shoulder in between punches to Duke’s head. 

Back in the ring, he clotheslines Duke and knocks him down to the canvas. Rather than going for the pin, he struts over to Toni, leaning on the top rope above her to flirt. She responds as she’s supposed to; coy and bashful, but definitely interested. It gives Duke enough recovery time to rip Dean away and lift him straight into a suplex. The impact rattles his teeth and whilst Dean’s laying there on his back staring up at the arena lights, getting his breath back, Duke and Toni act out an explosive argument.

All-in-all, it’s a pretty good match and he almost forgets what’s coming. 

Almost, but not quite. 

Eleven minutes in and Dean gets the pin. The crowd goes nuts as the referee collapses to the mat next to them, begins the count. 

_And here we go._

Timed to the second and there’s a huge collective gasp from the audience. Dean’s heart practically ricochets outta his chest, ‘cause he knows what it means. Duke kicks out on the two-count, but it barely even registers as Dean rolls away, focusing on not wrecking his career right here. 

The crowd cheers as the interloper makes his way to the ring. He slides in, under the ropes, stomach and chest flat to the canvas, athletic and fluid, muscles bunching and flexing as he gracefully shoves up to his feet. Standing there opposite Dean, he fills out his blue and black tights oh so fucking well; the stark colors a perfect match with his eyes and hair, and all Dean can do is gape like a barely-functioning moron, dry-mouthed and catching flies. 

The crowd is going wild but it’s all just white noise as far as Dean’s concerned. 

One of the announcers behind him breaks in through Dean’s fuzzy-headedness, “Oh holy Moses, Cole, it’s Castiel Novak from over at Impact Wrestling, what the hell is he doing here??”

As if this hasn’t been in the planning for months. As if any stunt like this isn’t meticulously rehearsed, plotted, and pored over. The matches themselves may have a predetermined outcome, but the wrestlers are free to do whatever they want to each other as long as they call it between themselves and hit certain beats. Basically, they wing it and have fun. But big debut promo shit like this? It’s gotta be perfect. No ad-libbing or going off-script here. 

Duke is still on the mat, taking a breather, which gives Dean time to stare down this new guy. 

Those eyes are so fucking blue that it’s distracting. 

Which is at least half the point. Whether the bigwigs and bosses know it or not.

Over the years, the Heartbreak Kid’s weakness time and again has proven to be women. Dean’s character is always chasing tail, and his latest gimmick is getting distracted by women kissing him. Whether it’s a female wrestler or the girlfriend of a male wrestler, he’s gotten used to having women jumping up onto him mid-fight, fitting their slender legs around his waist, and kissing him whilst the crowd whoops and hollers, chanting his name and living vicariously through him. 

Of course, the whole point is to distract Dean enough for him to get pinned and lose the match. 

But this ain’t that kinda distraction, obviously. ‘Cause pro-wrestling is a largely straight male space. Which has always made Dean laugh, because what about mostly-naked, sweaty men rolling around together screams ‘heterosexual’? 

A mic gets shoved into his hand, another into Castiel’s. 

The crowd quietens, a hush of expectation falling over the arena. This might be the WWE and there’s a certain amount of loyalty that’s granted to the roster, but the top Impact Wrestling stars are popular as hell and often jump over to WWE when the fans call for it. 

They’ve been clamoring for Castiel for some time. And rightly so. He’s damn good. Easily as good as some of WWE’s best, if not better. The main thing that’s stopped him from getting signed long before now is that he’s just a bit (read: _a lot)_ of a wild card and the boss of the WWE has never been good with those. 

You wanna get anywhere in this industry, you gotta play the game. By the boss’ rules, not your own. 

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel says and his voice is whiskey-and-cigarettes rough. Practically post-coital, and it has heat pooling low in Dean’s gut.

It’s only through sheer force of will that he doesn’t embarrass himself on the second largest pay-per-view event of the year. Dean has fought hard for his spot near the top of the roster; he’s not fucking it up now ‘cause of some shirtless pretty boy and his muscles and tattoos.

“Hello, Castiel,” Dean mocks, mirroring his ridiculously deep voice. As predicted, the audience laughs. In his periphery, he catches a glimpse of Duke staggering to his feet, and he’s supposed to pretend not to see, so he ignores it in favor of focusing on the man in front of him. In his normal voice, he adds, “What the hell are you doing here? Run outta ways to get your ass handed to you on your quaint little wannabe wrestling show?”

Castiel’s plush lips tilt up into a smirk. “Says the man who hasn’t won a match for how long now?” Dean opens his mouth to explain himself, but he’s rather brutally cut off, “No wait, don’t tell me, I don’t care. I’m here because I felt it was time that somebody put a stop to your harassment of the women on this show. I mean, anybody would think you’re overcompensating.”

The crowd reaction is mixed and Dean dramatically clutches at his chest, pretending to be wounded by Castiel’s words. “Ouch. Well, you’re more than welcome to see what all the fuss is about.” He winks lasciviously and subtly braces for the takedown move that Castiel is supposed to use in response. This is Castiel’s promo for his contract sign over, so he’s gotta show how technically capable he is, how well he controls a crowd. Going toe-to-toe with Dean and starting out as heel is the perfect opportunity to prove to the powers that be that they’ve done the right thing in signing him. 

The maneuver doesn’t come. Instead, Castiel crashes into Dean with all the force of a hurricane and _kisses_ him, tongue first. It’s nasty and dirty – all the things Dean loves – and so it’s really hard (pun so in-fucking-tended) to not respond. He fights to keep his hands by his sides, his right fist white-knuckling the mic, as Cas grips the fine strands of Dean’s hair at the nape of his neck, and tugs, trying to get Dean to open up for him, and this is _the worst_ game of gay chicken Dean’s ever lost. As Cas pulls away – and in a deliberate mockery of Dean’s cocksurety barely thirty seconds ago – he winks, the fucker.

Well, shit. They didn’t do _that_ in rehearsal. 

The audience has gone completely silent. And for one terrifying moment, the world tilts on its axis and Dean thinks that this is it. This is the end of both of their careers.

But then Cas lifts one broad shoulder in a shrug, leans right into the microphone with the lips that were just on Dean’s and says, “Meh.” The crowd goes _insane_ , laughing and cheering, jumping up and down with their arms in the air, waving their signs. “I don’t understand the hype,” he practically has to yell over them, slanting a look in Dean’s direction. 

Dean’s wide-eyed, open-mouthed surprise is entirely real, so he doesn’t need to pretend to let Duke get in a move on him and then pin him for the three-count. Before Dean manages to come back to himself, the bell’s ringing and the referee is holding Duke’s arm aloft in victory. 

Now on the outside of the ring, walking backward up the entrance ramp, and with his eyes not leaving Dean, Cas is smug and unrepentant, the possessive asshole. He crooks his finger, mouthing what looks like “come and get it” – his catchphrase from over at Impact – and just like that, the Heartbreak Kid has his latest rivalry, and Dean has his post-show instructions.

The crowd is still going crazy, and it’s obvious that they freaking _adore_ Cas already. Because of course they do. It’s not like Dean’s immune himself.

Far from it, in fact.

There are a lot of rules in professional wrestling. By kissing Dean in front of sixty-five thousand people, his boyfriend of thirteen years – his husband of five – just broke rule number one on his first night in the biggest wrestling arena in the world.

Dean can’t bring himself to be mad. 


End file.
